Still Raining
by TimshelBliss
Summary: It's just another rainy day for the average English bloke, but for Sherlock and John, the rain never ends; and it starts with a text from Moriarty. PLEASE REVIEW :)
1. Tea and Rain

**_"Do not be angry with the rain; _**

**_it simply does not know how to fall upwards." _**

**_-Vladimir Nabokov_**

* * *

The rain was coming down in sheets. It had been doing this all day, and the people of London were once again being reminded of why they enjoy their vacation days. John had never particularly hated the rain, but today he despised it. It was _water_, falling down from the _sky, _and for some reason this bothered John beyond belief. There was no reasonable explanation for him to be bothered by this fact, but nonetheless, he was.

Maybe it was because John was simply tired of the rain, or maybe it was because it made it more difficult to escape the tension within his flat. Because indeed, today there was plenty of tense air within 221B, and John had no idea why.

"John," came a familiar low voice from the living room, "phone."

John looked up from that morning's paper and glanced at Sherlock, his hand was outstretched, waiting for John's phone patiently. He placed it in the open palm and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on; on a day when it never stops raining, the least anyone can do for themselves is make a cup of tea.

"Do you want some tea Sherlock?"

"No," he answered abruptly.

Now this was unusual. Not his short, cold tone, but the answer. No? No to a cup tea? John poured two cups anyways.

"John, do you remember when I received a text this morning?"

John sipped his tea casually, "No Sherlock, I guess I just wasn't paying enough attention to every sound your phone was making." He smirked and added with sass, "my sincerest apologies." Sherlock raised his eyebrows; he knew it was the constant rain that was causing John to be short with him, but that didn't impair his ability to overlook it. John drank some more of his tea; it slowly made him feel better, "So, a text this morning?"

"Yes, a text."

"From who?"

Sherlock stared into space for a moment, hands clasped together under his chin, "From 'JM'"

John nearly spat out his tea, "JM? As in Jim Moriarty? Moriarty, he's back?"

"It only said 'JM', John, let's not jump to conclusions."

"It's hardly a jump Sherlock, not even a step, more like a small tip-toe. 'JM', who else could that be? Hold on, what did it say?" John stood in awe of his flatmate. How could he be so calm right now? Jim _Moriarty_. That man had strapped enough explosives to blow up a building to John's chest and used him just like a puppet. John was not going to be calm.

Sherlock hesitated a moment before answering. He looked John in the eyes, but John could tell it wasn't calmness he was seeing on Sherlock's face, it was a mask.

"It said, 'I'm back, we should grab lunch some time. Tell everyone else I said hi- JM', that's all it said."

"And what did you reply back?"

"Do you take me for an idiot John?"

"Sometimes," John replied, "Here's your tea."

"I didn't ask for tea." Sherlock looked annoyed, but he got no response, so he took a sip of the tea anyways, "I didn't reply to him. I wanted to tell you first and then tell Lestrade. Maybe even let Mycroft know as well."

There was a minute of silence within 221B, broken only by the clinking of tea cups on their plates. John was at a loss for words, in fact, John was at a loss for reactions. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? What _could_ he do?

"Sherlock, are we safe?" He finally asked to break the unbearable silence.

Sherlock's mask fell off. Even though it was just barely for a second John knew well him well enough to know when Sherlock was faking his composure. This was one of those times.

"I don't know John."

* * *

The rain was still coming down in sheets. _What was with this weather today? _Thought John. Yes, it's England and rain isn't necessarily a strange weather pattern for the British, but today was different for some reason. It had been raining since before he had woken up, it was raining when Sherlock had told him that Moriarty was back, and even now, almost an hour since Sherlock left to see Lestrade, it was _still_ raining.

_Sherlock said that he would be back thirty minutes ago. _John thought with annoyance.

He looked around; it was quite peaceful inside the flat. Regardless of the papers and books sprawled everywhere and the 'experiments' in their refrigerator, John really did think it was wonderful inside their flat. It _was_ home after all.

Then there was a sudden sound from behind him. Barely a sound really, more like a whisper of a floorboard shifting in its place. This shouldn't have made John jump. This shouldn't have scared him in the slightest. This shouldn't have caused him to abruptly turn around to see an intruder standing in the doorway to his living room

But it did.

And there was Moriarty; hands in his pockets and a faint smirk upon his lips.

Hatred in his heart.

"Hello John."


	2. A Misplaced Mobile

_**"Being soaked alone is cold. **_

_**Being soaked with your best friend is an adventure." **_

_**-Emily Wing Smith,**_**Back When You Were Easier to Love**

* * *

"John, have you heard from my brother?" Sherlock yelled up the stairs to his flat as he entered the building, "I left him a voice mail at his 'office' telling him to phone here when he wanted to." He began to fold the scarf John had gotten him for Christmas. He didn't particularly like the scarf (it was too short to double-wrap around his neck) but he wore it anyways. He realized that gift giving was some sort of sentimental thing that most people partook in and that it makes people happy to see other people using the gifts you gave them.

He still didn't quite understand why, but nonetheless, he wore the scarf all the same.

"Oh, Sherlock!" It was Mrs. Hudson on her way out, "I don't suppose you were having a get-together without me now, I'm just on my way to the cinema! Oh, and the phone lines are out by the way, dead for an hour, but I supposed you'll be alright – you've got your mobile."

"Get-together? In our flat?" Sherlock asked inquisitively.

"Well there were two men over here earlier to see John," Mrs. Hudson explained to Sherlock, "Are you two having a dinner party?" She said in a joking manner, "Because I really would love to see one of you two try to cook anything that didn't come straight out of the frozen food section."

Sherlock looked his landlady over for a minute and saw that she really, truly did not know what was going on, so he hurriedly pretended everything was normal for her sake, "No, Mrs. Hudson, don't you worry, we would never throw a party without you. Have a good night."

"You too dear," she replied, and disappeared out into the heart of London.

Sherlock pocketed his scarf and ran up the stairs, "John? John!" _When did these stairs become so tall? Since when did they take this long to run up? _Sherlock flung the door open and hastily looked around the flat.

Panic began to set in. He saw small patches of blood here and there, which only caused him to internally panic even more. He checked everywhere in the living room, and then the kitchen, and then the bedroom; still no sign on John.

The room was unusually dark, a side effect of the still-raining skies of London.

Something shiny caught his eye under the couch. He bent down to see it and found himself staring at a needle, and definitely not one John uses for medicine.

_Maybe he's not here, maybe they got him,_ thought Sherlock. It was too much for him to think of though. Moriarty couldn't have taken John, not again. Not again. _But think about it, if John was still at home wouldn't he have called? Wouldn't he have-_

Sherlock's pocket vibrated. Sherlock's phone doesn't vibrate.

John's phone does.

He wanted to punch himself, how could he have been so stupid? Leaving John alone with Moriarty on the loose was one thing but to leave him alone without his mobile? Anger flooded through him, anger at himself, but there were more important matters to deal with than his own foolishness; there was a land-line telephone on the third floor. Sherlock ran up the stairs.

"John? John!" He could see that in places the carpet had been shifted, where John had dragged himself up the flight of stairs; drops of blood here and there all adding to Sherlock's mounting worry.

And there was John; lying against the wall, stretch-cord phone in his hand, blood trickling from above his eye and onto his white jumper. Not much blood but still too much. He lay unconscious.

There was John.

"John! John, can you hear me?" Sherlock raced over to his flatmate and grabbed his shoulders, shaking them gently to try to evoke some sort of reaction. John's eyes fluttered open and then shut and he moaned softly, "It's okay, it's okay, everything is going to be okay. Just hang in there John, hang in there."

Sherlock dialed Lestrade, "Lestrade come quickly. 221B. It's John. I think he was attacked. Yes an ambulance- quickly. No I don't know, they stuck him with some sort of needle I can't tell what it is but he needs medical attention now. Hurry." And hung up.

"John? John, John look at me. Look at me, please," John's eyes fluttered open again and this time they managed to stay that way, despite the blood dripping into his left eye, "That's it, just keep looking at me, okay John? Everything's going to be okay, help is on its way, you're going to be okay just keep looking at me."

John moaned again, this time weaker, much weaker than before. His skin was ghostly pale and Sherlock almost couldn't stand the sight of his friend like this, nearly broken, nearly defeated, nearly-

No. He wasn't going to finish that thought because John was still alive and he was intent on keeping him that way.

Another moan. John's eyelids were becoming heavier, "Look at me John, look at me!" He could hear the sirens approaching from far away, "Hear that John? Help's coming. It's going to be okay, everything is going to be okay just keep looking at me- John! Keep looking at me!"

John's eyes fluttered closed.


	3. The Casual Murderer

_**"Rain drops are not the ones who bring the clouds." **_

_**-Sorin Cerin**_

* * *

John awoke to the sound of rain pounding against the window and to Sherlock's face smiling down at him, "Oh thank God John, thank God."

He had to close his eyes again; it was all too much, the sounds, the sights, the smells; all of John's senses suddenly awoke all at once and it was too much to process. Each sense was as foggy as the last and adding sight on top of all of them made John's head swim.

"It's okay John, close your eyes. I'll be here when you open them again."

And sure enough, when John opened his eyes again, there was Sherlock, casually slumped in his chair by the bed, staring up at the ceiling with his hands clasped together under his chin.

"Sher…" John started to talk but he had to stop himself, it was like learning how to speak all over again. It was exhausting.

"Lock," Finished his flatmate with a smile.

And John's eyes closed again.

* * *

_There was Moriarty. In his flat. In his _home, _there he was with a twisted smile upon his face. A second man appeared behind him with a briefcase and placed it down on the table. He was walking around like it was all just business, as if he wasn't actually a murderer breaking into someone else's flat. John tried to ask questions; what was he doing here, what did he want, who what where when why how?_

_Moriarty wouldn't answer any of them though, he had a question of his own- where was Sherlock, he asked .John didn't answer, but he also didn't know what to do. His gun was in a drawer by his bed so there was no hope of getting to it now. Even if he tried to run what good would that do him? There were still two men standing in his flat and one of them was opening the briefcase._

_Sherlock should be home by now. Sherlock should _be _here._

_The case opened and inside was a needle; John could see that it carried no medicine. Moriarty began to say something about how he needed to send a message to Sherlock, since he wouldn't be able to talk to him in person. John could guess what the message would be; _"Look at how powerful I am, Sherlock, I just killed your friend."

_John needed to get as far away from that needle as possible. He tried to run right past Moriarty, he swung his fist at him and felt it connect with something, a jaw possibly. Jim stumbled back and John saw his window of opportunity and sprinted for the stairs, but before he could make it Jim swung his leg around so that it caught John's heel and he came crashing to the floor._

_The other man grabbed John by the collar of his jumper and John tried to twist out of this man's grasp, to fight back, but the other man's fist connected with John's head before he had time to do anything._

_Stars exploded in front of John's eyes as he felt the weight lift from where the man had grabbed him. But once again, before John could stand and run something else hit John's head, and hard. Stars were flying all around John's vision and he cried out in pain. "Dear me John, would you please stop bleeding? You got blood all over my new shoes." John groaned and tried to get up, this time opening his eyes to see the two men standing over him. Moriarty brought back his leg and kicked the side of John's head for a second time, then for a third._

_John's mind was swimming in an ocean of pain. Was he going blind or were there just too many stars in the flat right now for him to see? He knew he was still on the floor but he couldn't quite feel it at the moment, all he could feel was the pain in his head._

"_Just hold still John and this will hurt a lot less than it has to"_

_And then then there was a prick on his upper arm, and that was that; he knew the fatal poison had been delivered._

_He tried to get up, and held the chair for support, "Well we're off Johnny boy, have a nice half hour." And just like that, as quick as they had arrived, they were gone. He had thirty minutes though; maybe Sherlock would be home by then._

_But then again, maybe he wouldn't._

_John fumbled though his pockets for his phone_. Ambulance, I need an ambulance, _was all he could think of. And then suddenly, with dread, John realised that Sherlock still had his phone. _Shit, oh shit,_ was he could think._

_The weight of his body slowly became all too much for John and he realised that the only landline phone in the flat was on the third floor, so John stumbled to the stairs, but could he make it all the way up? One step, two step, three step. John had do start really pulling himself up the stairs, it was as if his legs had stopped working- how long before his arms gave out too? Four step, five step, six step, seven step. When had these stairs gotten so tall?_

_Finally at the top, John grabbed for the phone and collapsed under the table. He pulled the corded phone as far as it would go and dialed Lestrade, then he put the phone to his ear._

_The line was dead._

Well this is it then,_ thought John to himself,_ this is the end. Not even a heroic death, just a death. Just another number to add to Moriarty's kill list. Just another.

_And then the world started to darken, the edges of his vision like a shadow that was growing, and so he closed his eyes. Had it been thirty minutes already?_

"_John? John!" He heard from downstairs. But did he really hear that, or was it just his imagination turning against him just like his vision had. The sound stopped for a bit, so maybe it truly wasn't real._

"_John? John!" But there it was again. His name. And who was that calling it? Was that Sherlock? No, it couldn't be Sherlock, Sherlock was out._

_And then he felt something touch his shoulder, and there was that voice again, this time telling him to open his eyes. So he listened to the voice, and there was Sherlock. John tried to say something but it all came out like a moan, so he stopped himself and instead chose to listen to Sherlock's voice, holding onto it like a lifeline to reality._

_And then there was the touch on his shoulders again, and the voice telling him it would be okay, and then there were sirens, and then there was hope, and then there was darkness._

_But still there was the rain._


	4. Cruel Joke of the Weather

_**"The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play. **_

_**So we sat in the house. All that cold, cold, wet day." **_

_**-Dr. Seuss**_

* * *

Sherlock was still wide awake when John woke up for the third time. Sherlock would have closed his eyes and rested, but he would have time to rest when John woke up, and he wanted to be there when John woke up again.

When John did wake up again he did so in a panic. He yelled as he woke from his unconscious state and then he cried out in pain because of his conscious state.

"Sherlock?!" John yelled, and looked around the room until his eyes met with his flatmate's, once their eyes met, John's head fell back against the pillow, but his eyes stayed locked on Sherlock's.

"It's okay John, it's all alright." Sherlock went to stand by John and rested his hand on the shoulder of his friend, who was nearly panting from shock.

"I just dreamed-… I saw-… Sherlock I-… I remember everything; every God damned detail of it, I just, I don't know, I think I panicked and woke up, I-" John had to stop and catch his breath, it was all too much for him; the sights and the noises and the memories- all of it was just way too much.

"Breathe John, breathe, go back to bed I'll still be here when you wake up"

"No, no way I'm going back to those dreams again."

Sherlock looked down at John, not even bothering to hide the worry on his face.

"Don't look at me like that Sherlock," John said in reply to his friend's expression, "I'm fine now. Just… tell me what happened."

"After you blacked out you were raced to the hospital," Sherlock began in a matter-of-fact way, " You flat lined for a little over three minutes," Sherlock stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, then continued the account, "but soon the doctors got you stable again. You were only unconscious for a little over a day."

"What time is it then?" Asked John, still processing the fact that he had been dead for three minutes.

"It is five o'clock in the afternoon. It's been thirty hours since… since you were attacked."

There was silence again in the hospital room, except for the rain outside.

"Are you joking me?" John said, appalled.

Sherlock looked at his friend in confusion, "No, it's really been thirty hours."

"Not that, I mean, _it's still raining_? Has it honestly been raining since yesterday morning?"

Sherlock almost laughed at the question, "No actually, it only started raining just before you woke up."

"Of course it did," said John.

More silence. More rain. John knew what he had to say he just didn't want to say it.

"It was Moriarty," John said finally, putting a name on the tip of everyone's tongues.

Sherlock let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding in, "That's what I thought."

"You know what this means don't you Sherlock."

"What does it mean John?"

John looked his flat mate in the eye and let a smile cross his lips, "It means things are about to get really fucked up."


	5. Biscuits With Business

_**"And sometimes you realize the value of the rain by**_

_** knowing how unreliable and vanishing the rainbow is." **_

_**-Nur Bedeir**_

* * *

John and Sherlock walked into their flat to find Lestrade and Mycroft enjoying the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had baked for John.

Lestrade looked up and nearly choked on the crumbs, "Mycroft made me do it."

Mycroft simply sighed exasperatedly, "My apologies John," He smiled, "we were merely testing them for you."

"So I assume the diet's coming along well," Sherlock said to his brother.

"Oh it's just marvelous," replied Mycroft with a sassy smile on his lips. John walked over and snatched the plate of biscuits out from under them. He popped one of them in his mouth in such a fierce manner, as if to say, "These are _my_ biscuits you git," and sat down in his chair.

"It's good to see you John," Lestrade said, "you had everyone over at New Scotland Yard in a worry." Lestrade, Mycroft and Sherlock all took a seat in 221B, and after the few pleasantries were exchanged, the real business began.

The police force had been investigating Moriarty's whereabouts, while Mycroft had been gathering tiny pieces of intelligence from all over London. Sherlock, of course, had the homeless network. Although they couldn't say exactly where Moriarty was, they had an idea of what he was doing.

"We think," Lestrade began, "That he has gathered a sort of… army."

"A _what_?" John looked aghast, "You've _got_ to be joking. Not a real army, I've had far too much of that sort of thing thank you very much."

"Well not a _real_ army," interjected Mycroft, who was smiling knowingly.

"Yeah, sort of like….. like a mob? Italian mafia style you know? It's his entire network," Lestrade explained, "We're not sure how many, but we're thinking he's got anywhere from twenty to fifty men directly working for him- or at least that's what the word on the street is."

"Then he's been back for a while hasn't he?" Replied John, "He couldn't have _just_ resurfaced in the criminal world and have twenty to fifty people all just gather together working for him. This kind of thing, this would take months and months of work to gather this many people to obey you like that." John got no reply, "Unless… unless he had all these people working for him all along."

"And that," Sherlock said, "is exactly what we're thinking."

"But that would mean he's a step ahead of us, Moriarty, he could have something planned for tomorrow and we've only just realized that he's back!"

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged glances, "Our fear exactly."

"We're going to investigate an abandoned warehouse near Brentford, Sherlock got a tip from the homeless network and right now it's the best lead we've got," Lestrade added.

John stood up from his chair, "Well let's get a move on then." Mycroft and Lestrade both stood up in agreement and headed downstairs to hail a cab. John had just started to follow them when Sherlock grabbed John's sleeve.

"You're not going John." The look in Sherlock's eyes was one John had never seen before.

John hesitated for a moment, "Yes. Sherlock, in fact, I am."

"No. You're _not_."

"And why is that?" John's annoyance was rising. He needed to be out there helping Lestrade, Moriarty was back and he wasn't just going to sit around his flat all day simply hoping for the best.

"John I have to do this alone. Without you're help, John, just this once." Sherlock was pleading with him now, a look of desperation in his eyes.

John was furious, "_Alone_? What is this to you, Sherlock- a _game_? I know you enjoy puzzles and problems and showing everyone how smart you are but this is _Moriarty_ we're talking about!" John took a breath and looked over his friend's face; as usual, it was a mask. "This man _kidnapped_ me and decked me out with enough bombs to blow up a _house_, Sherlock- and then _he was going to execute us_! That man is dangerous and-"

"_And_ _that's why I need you to stay here_." Sherlock interrupted. He was trying to make his voice sound stern but it wavered ever so slightly. "I know how dangerous he is John, that's why you can't come with us. He's already made you a target-"

"He's made us _all _targets, Sherlock-"

"Yes but _he almost killed you_. I left you alone in this flat for a little over an hour and," Sherlock swallowed hard, "… and you almost died. All just because I left you here for an hour- can't you see why I don't want to put you in anymore danger?"

"And can't you see why I don't want to be left here alone?"

Then suddenly Sherlock understood why John was so insistent- how could he have been so selfish? Last time John had been left alone in 221B he almost closed his eyes for the last time and now Sherlock was telling him to stay here alone again. Sherlock looked down with guilt. He couldn't believe what he had almost just done to John- again.

Sherlock didn't even know what to say, "I-"

John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "It's alright Sherlock. It's all fine." He smiled.

That was enough for Sherlock, in that instant everything was better simply because John said it was.

And with that the two flat mates left 221B, hailed a cab in the rain, and then the man hunt was on.


	6. Pull Over and Run

_**"Individuals who have learned to endure and persevere through the**_

_** storms of hardships are those who can **_

_**dance in the rain during a storm." **_

_**-Ellen J. Barrier**_

* * *

Sherlock and John had told the cabbie to follow the cab Lestrade was taking; Mycroft had opted for his own mode of transportation.

The car was winding its way through the rainy London streets on its way to Brentford, and John was hoping it would be a long enough ride to get his head wrapped around the situation. He tried to sort it out step by step: They are in a cab. Going to Brentford. Because that's where Moriarty might be. With his underground network. Possibly waiting for them. Moriarty was back. They don't know what he wants. But still, they're on their way now.

That pretty much sums it up.

Sometimes John wondered what his life would be like if he hadn't opted to live with Sherlock. More peaceful, definitely, but also probably more bland. His life would be boring, wouldn't it? Or would he simply be happier? There was no way of knowing of course, but nonetheless, it didn't stop John from wondering.

The cabbie's voice interrupted his thoughts, "So, I know I'm following the cab in front of us, but where exactly _am_ I driving you lot?"

There was silence in cab. John thought about this question for some time, and then looked at Sherlock for an answer, whose face was just as confused as his was. They both laughed at each other.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, and laughed even harder at himself. He looked a John and found him shaking with laughter, "I think we both forgot to ask."

The cabbie tried again to figure out where he was driving, "So you absolutely have no idea where we are going?"

"Well," John piped in, "We know that we're going to Brentford, I think."

"Okay, well that's something," Said the cabbie.

"And we also know that it's in an old abandoned warehouse," Sherlock said as he laughed again at the thought, "Here we are in a cab following a cab taking us to an old abandoned warehouse somewhere in Brentford, all in a day's work I suppose."

The cabbie laughed as he adjusted his rear-view mirror and checked the glove compartment; a motion that Sherlock hadn't noticed while being distracted with trying to figure out where they were headed, but one that John was acutely aware of. The cabbie started to change lanes so that they were closer to the side of the road. John took out his case-notebook and pen from his jacket and quickly jotted down a few things.

"Sorry lads, I just need to pull over for a minute, I think my tire's a little flat." The cabbie told them from the front seat.

"Oh how tedious," Sherlock said exasperatedly, he sighed, and then looked out the window once again.

As they were pulling up to the sidewalk John ever so slightly leaned over to Sherlock to reveal the contents of his notebook.

_When we pull over, we run._

Sherlock was confused, but decided that he trusted his doctor, and if his doctor told him to run, he would do so. As soon as the car came to a near-stop, Sherlock's door flew open and he was out before the cabbie had his gun from the glove compartment. In merely a few seconds Sherlock had escaped the cab, but when he turned to ask John what was going on, Sherlock was faced with the horrifying image of a gun being pointed at his best friend.

John was sitting calmly in the cab, looking at the driver. "John. What are you doing?" Sherlock called as he ran back to the cab, his sudden joy had dissolved into pure dread.

Dread. Oh how Sherlock hated that emotion. He hated it above all the rest. Dread was the end, or at least so it felt, there was no way out from dread. Dread was darkness when all memories of light have been forgotten; cold when all memories of warmth have been forfeited; and silence when any thought of sound had been lost. Dread was how Sherlock felt as he watched John calmly look down the barrel of the gun that threatened to end his life. The backseat window rolled down.

"John, why didn't you get out of the cab?" Sherlock was trying to sound calm, but his voice was quivering. He did a quick evaluation of the inside of the car; John was sitting exactly where he had been the whole time; the driver's glove compartment was open and empty; John was holding his gun in his hand, but it still rested in his lap.

John's jaw moved ever so slightly in response, and the cabbie spoke for him, "Oh because he was being clever, weren't you Jonny-boy?" He carelessly poked John's nose with the gun, but John's nerves of steel ensured that the cabbie's desire to scare him was left unsatisfied. "You saw me check for my gun when I found out where you two were going, didn't you John? And- oh I _see_!" he said noticing John's notebook, "You told him to get out of the cab but you were smart, you stayed behind. _Clever boy!_ You were so right to stay in here with me; if you had both stayed I would've just killed you both; if you had both left I would've just gotten out and shot you both; but since one of you stayed you've put me in a little bit of a dilemma, seeming as that _is_ a gun in your pocket Sherlock. At least I hope so."

Sherlock knew what he was trying to say, so he said it for him, "If you kill me, he kills you. If you kill him, _I_ kill you. You can't kill either of us without paying the ultimate price yourself."

"That's right, and your blogger figured it all out before I even started to switch lanes. You know what's going to happen now Sherlock, he's our hostage. You're going to put your gun on the ground, and John is going to hand his over to me," reluctantly, they both did as they were told, "and now you're just going to let me drive away."

"How do I know you're not going to just kill him?"

"You have my word then." Replied the cabbie.

"You're word means nothing to me," Sherlock almost hissed back, "_how do I know you're not going to kill him?_"

"Moriarty was always talking about how lucky you were to have a pet like John," the cabbie smiled crookedly, "we're not idiots Sherlock, we know better than to kill a _hostage_." Sherlock's heart was beating in his throat; he looked to John and tried to memorize his every feature, his every detail.

John finally took his eyes of the gun and looked over at his flatmate, "It's alright Sherlock."

"No John, it's not alright," Sherlock insisted once more, "this is why I said you _couldn't_ come."

John tried to pick his words carefully, "And yet, this is why I _had_ to come."

The backseat window rolled back up, but John never broke his gaze with his flatmate, "Solve this," he nearly shouted through the glass.

Sherlock stood in the rain, "I will."

Then the cab drove away.


	7. A Thief and A Tracker

_**"Everybody wants happiness nobody wants pain, **_

_**but you can't have a rainbow without a little rain." **_

_**- Unknown Author**_

* * *

Greg Lestrade was impatiently spinning his mobile around on the table waiting for Sherlock to arrive at the Brentford café he was waiting in. Sherlock had called him half an hour ago telling him what had happened, and Greg had hastily told his cabbie that he had the address wrong, that he had meant the local shopping mall, _definitely_ not the old abandoned warehouse. Definitely not.

As soon as he was out of the car he called Sherlock and told him that they would meet in the coffee shop near the mall, hopefully there they could figure what had happened and what to do. The whole situation had just gone from suspected criminal intent to a hostage situation with one of the trickiest criminals New Scotland Yard has ever faced.

In a whirl of a long black coat Sherlock sat down across from the Detective Inspector and clasped his hands together, "Lestrade, we need to act and we need to act fast."

"No," insisted Greg, "we need to _think_ and we need to _think_ fast." Sherlock looked at him with a flash of anger in his eyes, "Sherlock we can't just act if they've taken John hostage, we need to figure out why they would want John as a hostage considering the fact that only a couple _days_ ago they wanted him _dead_."

"Well isn't it obvious?" Sherlock said knowingly.

"Obviously not to me, Sherlock," Lestrade told him coldly, then sighed, "but come on, let's hear it."

"Moriarty's trying to get to me; and that's not even something I had to deduce it's just an evident fact. He texted me, he tried to kill my best friend and I'd bet my scarf that Moriarty knew John would stay in the car; Lestrade, _open your eyes_. This whole thing is a set up and it's all pointing to the fact that Moriarty wants to destroy me, physically, mentally and emotionally."

Suddenly a chair was moved to their table and Mycroft promptly took a seat in it, "Well here's to hoping we can stop him before that happens brother, God knows I won't be the one taking care of you then." Sherlock gave him a fake smile.

Lestrade was slightly lost, "How… did you know we were here?"

"Oh," Mycroft sighed, "I slipped a GPS tracker into your pocket after Sherlock stole your I.D." Reluctantly, Sherlock placed the D.I.'s identification on the table.

"You were being annoying." Sherlock explained.

Lestrade took a moment to process, and then tried to get the conversation started again, "Mycroft, they've got John as a hostage and we don't know where they've taken him."

"Let's not jump to conclusions, Lestrade," Mycroft told him.

Sherlock looked at his brother with great interest, "You know where he is."

"Of course I know where he is; I _am_ the government you know, I think I can handle more than one GPS tracker." Mycroft took out his cell phone and looked at it, "It would appear that he's been taken to the exact place we were all going anyways; the warehouse."

Sherlock stood from the table, "Where do you think you're going?" Said Lestrade.

"Where do you _think_ I'm going Inspector?"

"Well I certainly hope you're not going to the warehouse, dear brother," Mycroft piped in, "not by yourself at least."

Sherlock was appalled at the suggestion of waiting for authorities, "Mycroft I am _not_ going to wait for the Scotland Yard or the rest of your government to help me."

"You don't _have_ to," Greg explained, "Donovan could dispatch a group of our finest officers to be at the warehouse in an hour, maybe less.

This did nothing to comfort Sherlock, "I don't _have_ an hour and neither does-"

Sherlock' pocket vibrated, and once again, he reminded himself that his phone does not vibrate. John must have slipped it into his pocket before he fled the car. He looked at his phone:

_"Well Johnny boy was smart to plant his phone on you Sherlock, less chance of us finding his personal contacts, you see, but I just _know_ that you'll be reading this Sherlock. I just thought I'd let you know that if you try anything with the police force or your brother's army, John's dead. Or is he dead already? How could you tell? Oh no, he can't be dead yet, I just heard him yell from across the hall- oops am I getting off topic? You'll have to forgive me Sherlock I was busy trying to frighten you. But seriously, love, if you know what's good for you- don't get help from the forces. Just don't._

_XoXo – JM"_

Sherlock fell back into his chair and he closed his eyes. He wasn't here in the coffee shop. He wasn't here and John wasn't there; they were both back in their flat at Baker Street and the kettle was on. John was out of danger and he was fine and he was happy and he was sitting in his chair, just sitting there peacefully, smiling at the sun shining through their windows.

But the sun wasn't shining through the windows, because it was still raining, and John wasn't at home because he was somewhere in an abandoned warehouse, and he wasn't out of danger because Sherlock dragged him into this and that was all Sherlock could think about.

Sherlock placed the phone on the table without even looking up, his face in his palms trying to figure out what to do, what he _could_ do.

"What are you going to do Sherlock?" The voice of his brother floated past the barriers he was attempting to put up. Sherlock took a breath in, and then out, and then in, and then he stood up from his chair and looked out the window to see the rain, the rain, the constant rain, the never ending rain that was becoming his life.

He looked over at his brother and the detective; his allies.

"I'm going after him." He said in a matter-of-fact way, "And you're not going to stop me."

Lestrade tried to smile, "I wouldn't try to stop you, but that doesn't mean I can't come with you."

Sherlock began putting on the scarf he got from John; he tied it a little closer to his heart than he normally would, "Actually, as a matter of fact you _can't_ come with me; did we not just read the same message Lestrade?"

"I'm not the police force Sherlock, I'm just a Detective Inspector; I can help you all I want and we'll still be within Moriarty's rules, I just won't get any help from the Scotland Yard."

"That renders you to be of little use then," scoffed Sherlock.

"I'm still not letting you go in there by yourself; one against an army isn't fair; _two against an army_, I think we could handle it."

Mycroft took this chance to re-enter the conversation, "And this is of course when I become of assistance."

Sherlock threw his brother a strange look, "You'll come with us?"

"Oh heavens, no! I haven't got the time," Mycroft smiled, "but I have brought some guns that you may be able to put to good use, or bad use. Take your pick; it really makes no difference to me."

Greg stood up from the table and began to button up his jacket, "You're really just going to let your younger brother waltz into a warehouse of criminals with a couple guns and a D.I. by his side?"

"I understand that it doesn't seem very courteous of me Inspector, but I _am_ the government after all, and today the government has a meeting with the doctor."

"Are you alright?" Asked Sherlock, feigning concern.

Mycroft laughed at his brother's gesture, "Not _a_ doctor dear brother, _the_ doctor." And as suddenly as he had arrived, Mycroft had left. Anthea approached them with a case holding a couple guns and then swiftly departed after her boss. This was strange behaviour for most people, but Sherlock's brother wasn't most people.

Greg and Sherlock finished doing up their jackets and soon left as well; all that remained of their conversation within that café was a used napkin and a small puddle of rain water where their feet had been.

Sherlock Holmes left no trace that he had been there, except the rain.

Always the rain.


	8. His Division

**_"Once the rain starts falling it's hard to tell it to stop..." _**

**_-Samantha Yong_**

* * *

"You're sure that was the right number John? He hasn't even written back yet, oh boo." Moriarty's voice was the only thing resonating in the upstairs room of the warehouse John was locked in. Moriarty sat cross-legged in a chair on the other side of the room, watching John carefully to see what he would do, but John did nothing but sit where he had been sitting since they brought him there; on the cold ground with his hands tied behind his back, cuffed to a water pipe sticking out of the wall.

John had tried to get his hands free but it was no use, he needed the key that Moriarty had conveniently placed on the ground in front of him; just a yard out of reach.

"Johnny boy, you don't think he'd just leave you here would he? I mean, it's been almost _two hours_ since I messaged him," John wasn't looking up anymore, but he could hear Moriarty smile, "I really hope he didn't go to the police or anything like that, I'd really hate to kill you, honestly. Your face it too cute to blow a hole in; you can see my dilemma can't you." John heard him get out of his chair and take a couple steps.

John's heart started to beat a little faster and his breathing started to get a little heavier. He had to keep reminding himself that he was in this position because he was protecting Sherlock; he had put himself in this situation for a reason and he couldn't let go of that reason, and that reason was his flatmate, his best friend. As Moriarty took more steps towards him John had to keep reminding himself of his friend. He couldn't let go of that no matter what.

"I can't kill you, but that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun with you."

Moriarty stepped closer.

* * *

Sherlock was panicking, which he didn't normally do, but it had been a little over three hours since they had taken John hostage. Anything could happen in three hours, _anything_ could have happened to John and what was Sherlock doing about it? He was crouched next to Lestrade behind a fence.

They had been this way for a few minutes, which was a few minutes that Sherlock could have spent escaping with John, but Greg had insisted that they first figure out what their plan of attack was.

"There is no 'plan of attack' Lestrade," Sherlock replied angrily, "we're not attacking anyone- we're going to try to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible and then we get John out of there and _then_ and _only then_ can you call in your squad to take care of Moriarty's network."

"So that's it then?" Lestrade said in frustration, "we're just going to sneak in there? Sherlock I don't know if you've noticed but I'm not one of your brother's 007 agents."

"Why don't you just stay here then?" Sherlock knew he was being mean, but that never stopped him before. "Are hostage scenario's even your division?"

"Saving friends is _always_ my division," Lestrade said, "you twat."

Sherlock looked at the man next to him; he was frightened, that much was obvious, but he was obviously determined as well. Sherlock saw the bags under Lestrade's eyes and for the first time realized that Lestrade had probably stayed up all night while John was in the hospital as well. Sherlock wanted to apologize for his previous assumptions but didn't know how, so he just didn't say anything at all.

Instead, he stood up and handed Lestrade a gun, "Shall we?"

Lestrade took the gun and stood up facing the warehouse. It was well into night time by now and the warehouse grounds were poorly lit.

"Let's," he said.

The rain had almost stopped but not quite, it was still falling at a light drizzle, and it made the perfect cover for sneaking across the grounds and into the building.

* * *

"Oh goody," Moriarty said checking his phone, "looks like Sherlock hasn't given up on you after all." He sat down next to John, careful not to get any blood on his suit; it _was_ Westwood after all. "See look I got a text from one of my henchmen- isn't that great, I have henchmen now- see," he said and put the phone in front of John's face.

It said "_Possible intruders, first floor north wing"_, but John couldn't really tell; one of his eyes was black and swollen, and the other didn't want to open until the blood stopped dripping from his previous head wound that had reopened. "Oh come on Johnny boy don't be such a spoil sport, look at it!" Moriarty slapped John hard, and he cried out in pain. "Oh don't be such a pansy John, most of the damage was to your torso anyways, oh, and your leg I guess. Just read the text. It's simple."

John forced his good eye to open and read the text, and then shut it again. His whole body was in pain; where it wasn't bruised it was bleeding, and where it wasn't bleeding it was going numb. Moriarty got back up, "Now that wasn't that hard, was it?" he said as he placed the bloodied knife on the only table in the room.

Without another word, Jim Moriarty left the room and closed the door behind him, sealing John in a seemingly infinite darkness.

An un-measureable amount of time later John heard footsteps from down the hall, and he was terrified of the man they might belong to. Instead, he heard a familiar baritone voice yell his name from far away.

John didn't care if it was still raining outside or not, inside the room, regardless of how dark is was, the sun began to shine.

"Sherlock!"


	9. Dear Me, Dear Me

**_"For after all, the best thing one can do when it is raining is let it rain." _**

**_-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_**

* * *

Sherlock crouched in the shadows as Lestrade disappeared into the darkness; he was going to continue to search the ground floor while Sherlock explored the upstairs area of the warehouse. In the beginning, Sherlock hadn't necessarily wanted Greg joining him in his search to find John, but as he stealthily walked down the hall out of sight, Sherlock realized what a comfort the inspector had been to him. Sherlock looked up the stairs to the top floor of the building and he held his breath; was John up there? Right now _at this very moment_ was John simply sitting somewhere or was he in immediate danger? Sherlock couldn't bare the think the worst; of all the deaths that he'd investigated and all of the murders he's witnessed, none of them could have prepared him for the possibility of losing his best friend.

He took one slow cautious step onto the first stair, and then he ran the rest of the way up, two steps at a time.

The long hallway was almost completely dark, only illuminated by the moonlight coming in from a single skylight in the middle of the hall. The light shone just bright enough to outline the door frames so Sherlock could find his way around. He checked the first door, and luckily found it open. He took a brave step into the darkness and whispered the name of his flatmate, but there was no reply. _Is he not replying because he's not here, _thought Sherlock_, or is he not replying because he can't_? He fumbled around for a light switch of some sort; he eventually found one and turned it on, illuminating the room with a pale orange light.

The room was empty of any person, and contained only two rows of six chairs, all facing each other. On the back wall there was a dirty whiteboard, on it were scrawled choice words, "Dear me, Sherlock, dear me."

Sherlock felt the rage gathering inside of him but refused to let it overcome him; John was still here- he _had_ to be, and Sherlock was going to find him. He flicked the light off and shut the door. He did a quick calculation judging from what he could see of the hallway; _Only 36 more rooms to go._

Time passed as slowly as it could; it seems to be the cruel fact of life that when all you want time, it runs right passed you fast as ever, but when you can't stand another minute, each second crawls by slower than possible.

After the first ten doors, Sherlock was close to giving up hope, but still so far from believing John was gone. He knew it would draw attention to himself, but he couldn't help it, "John! JOHN!" He called as loudly as he could.

And then he held his breath and waited, and waited, and felt the dread consuming his heart like a fire consuming a once beautifully green forest.

But then the rain came and put the fire out, "Sherlock!"

Now reader, there's a very precious moment that goes on inside the human soul when a sense of immense relief takes you. It's similar to when you're going on a road trip and realize you forgot to pack the most important thing in the world. You go through doubt, dread, hysteria and panic until suddenly, a beautiful thing happens; the person sitting next to you pulls out the item you though you forgot and you take a breath in as if you've never breathed before. It is _truly_ a beautiful moment that comes with relief. Not only is it a precious feeling alone in itself, but the fact that it most often follows dread seems to make it taste even sweeter.

The sound of John calling his name had come from further down the hall, so Sherlock broke into a run and chased that beautiful sound, "John! John where are you?"

"Here! Sherlock, I'm in here! Sherlock!" The detective could here which room it was coming from and he threw the door open, fumbled for the light, and then flicked it on.

There was John. Blood was on the floor and it almost made Sherlock's heart stop to see him like this. One of his legs was bent at an odd angle in front of him, broken, and his once beige jumper was dyed a horrifying red. John's arms were behind his back, and Sherlock could see black bruises blooming on his friend's neck. His head wound from the other day had been reopened and was dripping into one of his eyes, while the other was nearly swollen shut. But on top of all this horror, on top of all this pain, John was smiling.

"I knew that you'd come."

Sherlock raced across the room to his friend and knelt down beside him, not caring about the blood on the floor. He held John's face in his hands and looked, just looked, at his doctor, "Just look at what they've done to you, just..." Sherlock tried to keep it together, because it wasn't his turn to fall apart, but he couldn't help the slight quiver in his voice while he tried to slip his mask back on. He looked over John's shoulder and saw the handcuffs that bound him to the post.

"The key… it's there, by my foot," John tried not to let his voice shake, but his pain was not one you could just pretend wasn't there.

Sherlock grabbed the key and quickly undid the bonds. He gently grabbed John by the shoulders and pulled him away from where he had been sitting and into the centre of the room, as far away from the blood as he could get.

He brought John close to him and let him lie there against him, making sure the whole time that he could feel the rise and fall of John's chest; constantly making sure that he was still breathing. He sat there with his flat mate, carefully rubbing a non-bruised part of John's arm while his other arm gently ran its fingers through John's short army cut.

"John, I'm going to get you out of here even if it's the last thing I do I swear to _God_ John, I'm going to get you out of here, and you're going to be alright. I _promise_ you that, John, I promise." John nodded and tears fell from his closed eyes, Sherlock hastily brushed them away, "Now we're going to try to get up alright? Alright? We're going to get up on the count of three, ready? One, two-"

Sherlock felt the barrel of a gun on his neck, the cold steel ice against his hot skin.

"Three," finished the man with the gun.

Sherlock glanced behind him, looked at Moriarty, and peered into his cold, dark eyes; they showed no remorse. Moriarty took a step back; still keeping the gun pointed firmly at Sherlock, and began to walk around the pair.

"What are you thinking Sherlock?" He began inquisitively, "Truly, what _are_ you thinking, right now."

Sherlock didn't say anything at first; he just looked down at John, who was staring at Moriarty, who was peering at the gun Sherlock had stupidly left by the wall. "Why do you care what I'm thinking, if you're just going to kill me anyways?"

"Well maybe if you told me what you were thinking I wouldn't kill you, so tell me, Sherlock, come on."

"That _was_ what I was thinking." Sherlock replied through gritted teeth.

Moriarty's gun clicked, "Don't play clever with me. It won't work."

"I was thinking about how much I hate you," Sherlock told him quickly.

"Don't lie to me Sherlock!" Moriarty raised his voice took a step closer to them, walking around so that John was in between them. His gun was still pointed at Sherlock, never wavering, but it wasn't for his life that Sherlock was scared, it was for John's.

So he quickly replied to Moriarty, "I was debating the best possible escape route."

"LIES!" Shouted Moriarty as he strode towards them and kicked John's broken leg. John screamed out in pain but was too weak to fight back, let alone flee, so instead he tightened his grip on Sherlock, who was staring horrified at the pain John was in.

"Okay!" Sherlock yelled, "I was thinking about how this is all my fault," He was trying desperately to keep himself composed, "my fault, everything that's happened to John. Is that what you want to hear? That you did it? That you finally _got under my skin_? Well congratulations, you got me," Sherlock spoke slowly and precisely, "now what are you going to do next?"

Moriarty looked down at the pair of them in pity; world's greatest detective sitting on the floor, holding his bloodied and broken blogger with no weapon to protect them, except for a half emptied hand gun, lying too far out of reach. He admired the gun in his hand and laughed at them, "Look at what love has done to you, Sherlock." Moriarty was now standing between the two of them and the door, so there was no chance he could see the man's shadow that was lurking just outside of it, "Just look at yourself Sherlock, you're only half the man you once were."

"No." Lestrade said calmly as he stepped into the room, gun pointed at Jim Moriarty, "He's twice that."

Sherlock truly did cherish the look of surprise on Jim's face as he met his unexpected death. He must not have even seen who shot the bullet that tore its way through his chest, but his killer's identity was of little importance to him in the moment of his death. What he did with the few seconds he had left meant _much _more to him, so he used what little strength he had left to aim his gun at John, and fired.

Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing when he threw himself in front of the bullet. He didn't even think about what he was doing; he didn't have to.

The lead ripped through his shoulder like a thousand red-hot knifes, and the pain spread across the rest of his chest until it hurt to breathe.

"Sherlock!" Yelled Lestrade as he raced over to him and tried to keep him steady.

"It's all right Lestrade, I'm fine," Sherlock assured the detective, "I'm fine." He might just have been saying that to convince himself, but nevertheless he held back all his pain and looked at the Inspector, "It's just a shoulder wound, barely scratched the surface."

The terror on Greg's face was replaced by a faint smile; same old Sherlock. "You're a bleeding mad man Sherlock, I hope you know that."

"You never let me forget." Sherlock replied and smiled. He would never have expected himself to smile in a situation like this; his friend was in extreme pain, he had been shot, and they were siting God-knows where in an abandoned warehouse, but still, above all of that, Moriarty was _dead._ And this time he was sure of it. Sherlock peered at Lestrade, who was looking over John.

"Lestrade," inquired Sherlock, "how many men did you find downstairs?"

"None." Lestrade replied cheerfully, "The whole warehouse is absolutely empty- isn't that great?"

John glanced curiously over at his flatmate, and he wasn't quite sure what faint emotions were flickering over Sherlock's face.

Sherlock clenched his teeth through the pain from his shoulder as Greg stood up from where he'd been crouched next to John, "He's going to be fine, I know he looks bad, but it looks a lot worse than it actually is," Lestrade informed Sherlock, "I've called an ambulance and they'll be able to fix him right up. Talk to us, John."

John finally spoke up in a very weak, but still confident, voice, "What have you noticed, Sherlock?" He may have been in pain, but John knew when Sherlock was deducing something; nothing escapes the eyes of a well-trained doctor.

"Nothing." Sherlock replied quickly, but his expression betrayed his answer; there was only one explanation for why the building was empty.

"Sherlock, do not," John coughed a little and his ribs began to burn, "_do not_ lie to me Sherlock."

Greg stared at the detective with a worried look, so Sherlock spoke quickly and to the point, "I think this building might be about to blow up."


	10. The Sun

_**"The Sun after the rain is much beautiful than the Sun before the rain!" **_

_**-Mehmet Murat ildan**_

* * *

Lestrade was out of breath, running down the stairs of the warehouse with John on his back and Sherlock not far behind.

"And just _when_ were you going to tell us, Sherlock? _After_ the building exploded?" Lestrade yelled back to the detective.

"I was still processing!" Sherlock yelled back at him, "I'm still not even sure that it _is_ going to explode."

"Then why would you say that?!" The inspector cried as they began to cross the ground floor, seeking for the nearest exit.

"Because there's still a chance! By all means inspector, stay here if it bothers you that much!" The exit was in sight now.

"Careful Sherlock," John piped in, "your sass is showing."

Just a couple more steps.

And then they were out; into the open air and out of the warehouse.

They made it out.

As they hit the tall grass the night time dew sprayed back at them, just as the building blew up behind them.

They felt the heat on their backs a split second before the force of the explosion sent them flying; through the night time air and then landing sprawled on the cold wet grass.

Lestrade and John landed a few feet in front Sherlock, and he heard the bones from John's bad leg crack a bit more before John cried out in pain; Sherlock hit the ground hard on his shoulder and screamed. He just laid there for a moment in shock, absorbing the cool sensation of the grass into his injured body.

Suddenly Lestrade was standing over him, "I'm going out to the road to meet the ambulance okay? John's fine don't worry, it'll be okay Sherlock." And then Lestrade was gone again.

The cool grass was beginning to feel like a paradise to Sherlock, whose bullet wound was feeling less and less painful the more he lay in the dew, but soon he heard John moaning. He pushed himself into a sitting position and looked around for John, who was lying just a few feet away on his back, staring at the burning building. Sherlock crawled over to John and lied down next to him.

"Oh, Sherlock," John started weakly, "how nice of you to join me."

"How could I resist?" Sherlock replied, "You've got such a lovely view."

He adjusted himself so that his body was closer to John's and that their shoulders were touching. For a little while they were just lying there like that; two grown men, injured and bloody, lying in the grass watching a building burn to pieces right before their eyes.

"It's like a bonfire," John continued, "I wish I had some marshmallows."

"Not just marshmallows," Sherlock added, "biscuits and chocolate too; the whole smore."

There was a comfortable moment of silence between the two flat mates. They had never seen a fire as big as the one right before their eyes, and the two of them simply forgot their pains and marvelled at the sheer size of the flames.

"Sherlock," John started, "I could die right here."

Sherlock was aghast, "Don't say that John."

"That's not what I meant," John continued, "I'm not saying I'm going to die right here, Sherlock. I'm just saying that… if I _did_ die right now, it would be okay." Sherlock rolled his head so that he could see the fire better, "I would be okay with that, dying here, next to you," John laughed, "I'd be very okay with it. Does that make sense?"

Faint sirens could be heard from far away.

"That makes perfect sense, John."

Sherlock looked over at his flat mate, but John wasn't looking at him and he wasn't looking at the fire either; he was looking at the stars, because it had finally stopped raining.


End file.
